It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. "Let me go," cried Winifred. "So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism.
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